


Tales of an Iselian Tiger

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: Of Shattered Glass/These Warped Perspectives [14]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Intro to both Colette and Lloyd's OC mentor, Lloyd's background post Red Earth, Playfullness, Pranks, Racism, breaking of tradition, childhood fic, family fic, friendship fic, overcoming racism, religion centric, tradition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Foundations of the fall" fic</p><p>Because all tigers were fierce, and had claws and fangs and voices quite loud.  He'd never seen one in white though, or one with painted stripes.  So for not seeing he decided to make stripes all his own. Such clashed against Cruxis born tranquility that those above demanded be maintained, but if it weren't meant to be... well the goddess wouldn't allow it, would she?</p><p>Such flippancy had gotten him sent everywhere, from here to there and round about seeking chapels that weren't.  The last dust of his past pilgrimage hadn't even settled on his boots before he was sent off again to Iselia, green tiny Iselia where nothing happened and no one cared.</p><p>Care'd been wiped away.  With death lingering above the townships head every second caring was hard.</p><p>Here they'd housed him, and all accidental the hope of the world..</p><p>If nothing else the results of such proximity would be.... interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Looking back

Looking back,  


Tales of an Iselian Tiger

 

 

I learned about hard choices from Tylor. I learned how to make them, how to take them. I learned of tolerance, and how to have fun. Kinda hard to think of me not as fun loving… but I was really serious way back when. If there was ever a man I admired, it was the Father Tylor, the man who took in a tainted dwarf spawn, a wild wicked child.

But to one man I wasn't any of those things, for that I was grateful, and all the words in the world can't capture the depth of that.

He tolerated me, the heretic, the demon spawn, he accepted me for being me, and that meant the world. Not to say that one man's tolerance changed the world. It didn't make everything "all right"; a lot of my childhood wasn't all that great actually. The teasing, the fights, I dealt with a lot of that. But it wasn't as bad as it could have been. I had one place to turn, one person to trust, and maybe it changed my world around.

I wasn't alone anymore, I wasn't hated by the whole world, and that gave me a bit of hope to carry on.

Yeah, I know Noishe was there, and dad, but Noishe couldn't save me every time and Dad… Dad didn't understand.

No offense Dad, but there is differences between Dwarves and humans, and I guess hating people for stupid reasons is one of them.

Anyways, oh yeah, Tylor, he gave me my childhood I guess. He would invite me to play the Tiger Hunt when I was too shy to ask. Oh, and I met Colette cuz of him (she tripped into me when we were playing) I almost forgot about that. I lost count of the games, of the times he'd tuck me under his arm and run his knuckle over my head. Sometimes he'd pick me up and toss me, catch me, toss me again. I used to say I was flying and he'd laugh and tell me that when I flew for reals, without any of his help, not to fly too far.

" _Cold for one thing, higher you get the colder it gets, and it makes you sleepy too..."_

" _Sleepin' while I'm fl'in' would be bad huh?"_

" _Very." Tylor chuckled. "Of course when you get back, you must tell me all about it."_

" _I'll take you with me!"_

 _Tylor only laughed, reached down and ruffled the wild chestnut locks_.

Tylor always laughed I guess… He was always laughing, if it was at how somber the Mayor was to how stubborn the priests were. He always found a way to shrug off the worst of what was happening and chuckle about it. He always smiled, always laughed, and was able to make anyone join in too.

That's what I liked best about him, his ability to laugh, to find the best in everything, or… well almost anything. There was one time he didn't laugh, that he was nearly crying. He knelt, drew me close and I snuggled against his white robes wondering what was wrong. He sighed, stroked my hair with a shaking hand, and then tilted my head up. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his face pale paler than normal, with strands or red tangled hair falling across it, almost masking the red streaked eyes brimming with tears. Tears that stood in the corner of his eyes yet did not fall. In a quiet, a choked voice, he told me that he had to move, that he had to go to a place called Palma Costa and that it was far far away.

" _The Voice of Martel commands me, as a Son of the Church, I must obey."_

" _But why!" Tears ran down his face, from a world away he heard Marche snort. It was like he was laughing and calling him stupid all at the same time._

_Lloyd would grow to hate Marche for that sound._

" _You can't go, I… I won't let you!" Lloyd wrapped his hands around the priest's neck, burrowed his small face in the crook of Tylor's neck._

" _Will you leave your father?"_

_Horrified Lloyd let go of the priest, startled by the cold tone._

" _Will you leave your father, leave Noishe, and leave Iselia, to come to Palma Costa with me?"_

_Slowly Tylor stood, trails of wetness, streaked with a touch of gold by the sun light, ran down his face._

" _You will be a good Son Lloyd; you will stay with Dirk, take care of Noishe. Remember, family, taking care of your family is the most sacred duty that anyone, Goddess or Man, can lay upon you."_

_Bawling Lloyd clung to the hem of the priest's robes and wept in front of all of Iselia. Hands wrapped around him, white wings seemed to shield him from the world._

" _Mer Osin, mer Osin, phaeres. Forgive me, but as you are a good son, so I must be a good Son. Sometimes… hard choices rip families apart, but eventually, eventually they come back together in some way. Know, Mer Osin, this is the hardest choice I've made in all my life._ "

I hated Martel for that, for a long while, for taking Tylor away. Maybe if Tylor would have stayed I wouldn't have been so skeptical, a little less wild, I don't know because he was a good Son, and I was too. He left and I stayed, though I ached for him to come back every day.

I think that's why I wrote him, told him everything, because I knew he would never be allowed back so I brought little pieces of home to him.

He had given me everything, it only seemed fair that I try to return the favor.


	2. Mint?

Tales of an Iselian Tiger.

Mint?

 

He jingled as he walked, or rather the pack tied to his back did. Though miffed by layers of holy vestments and squashed by the odd knick a knack his not-so-subtle secret sang with every step. Still, even bells cou8ld be monotonous, so he broke the rhythm with a hummed tune or three. Half walking, half dancing, he strolled down the dusty road. Thus, he traveled, as he always did, closing the distance between here and there at a leisurely pace.

And for once, he wasn't the oddest in the company. Knowing this, he tried to make up for it, but he doubted he was succeeding.

The smallest of his present company was perched upon a dog shaped beast. The creature was massive, allowing the little feet of its passenger plenty of room to dangle as they went forward. Without a fear in the world, the little boy's thick fingers were lost in the beast's mane like scruff, small heels drummed upon snow white sides, even as the child's brown eyes avidly watched the road. Not content to contemplate the path ahead, the littlr passenger looked aside, behind, and contemplated the sky above their path with utmost interest. So vigorous was the boy's efforts to see everything the priest felt his neck beginning to ache from watching the boy turn here, there, everywhere.

Pacing the boy's beastie, was a person sporting only a foot or more height than the boy to his name despite being full grown. Never had the traveling priest thought the term "dwarf" was so literal, but it was, and so he merely marveled. Eyes forward, neither looking about or glancing down -always a dangerous proposition when traveling a well traveled road for there were always horse "traps" to consider- the dwarf stoically matched step with creatures twice his height. Unlike child, priest, or beast, the bearded one showed not a speck of curiosity or wonder to his name.

A shame that, he was missing quite a bit.

Speaking of names...

A night agone introductions had been tendered in the roadside chapel of Martel. Over tea and starlight and of course he recalled the boy's name. He'd made a point of learning it, the dwarf's name was as simple and pointed as the man himself, made memorable despite it's mundane slant by the fact that the one who bore it was -to Tylor's experience- quite unique. It was the dog's whose name he had forgotten. To ask or recall a name given, that was another thing he'd forgotten as well. So he dwelled on the matter of names and fickle memory while he danced down the dusty road. Jing-a-lining along as if he was without a care in the world.

He whiled the time with quick hops and skips, and never let the familiar ringing of his bells block his ears in full. He listened, hoping beyond hope that someone would supply some hint or call the beast by some name he could pirate. Unfortunately the dwarf's nominatives of "Hey You," "Mutt" and "Dog" were far too rude and smacked of a grudge half healed and mildly festering. Still, the dog responded to those, though the venomous glares that served as replies were a mite chilling considering the length of the canine's teeth.

"Hey, you!"

_"My, what sharp teeth you have!" squeaked the Chosen to the Wolf._

Sharp teeth snapped in a growl without sound, the dwarf stepped back; earthen hued eyes squinted in obvious distaste as he minded the teeth.

"Yes, you!" Dirk huffed, "slow down a bit if you'd would. It's hard keeping pace with you, dog."

With a grunt the canine looked away, but he slowed, considerate of the dwarf's pain at least. Cheered by that smidge of intelligence Tylor smiled. He'd try the direct route than, and see what it garnered. Waiting until some of the tension passed and his own impatience to be down with it hit full (the latter could take mere minutes) he plowed into the mildly dispelled tension ridden silence with his query.

"I don't suppose you'd give a hint?" The priest pressed the dog. One jagged looking ear swerved in the white clad man's direction. Heartened, Tylor's smile widened at the promising development. All his other queries had been ignored.

"Good Morning." He greeted the dog, never minding that it was a very dusty afternoon.

With an audible "snort" the dog went back to ignoring him.

The child, twisting about on his seat to better stare at the dejected man in white, quietly the boy looked upon the grown up with solemn eyes. To that show of somberness the priest dropped his melancholy act and acted as any other priest of Palma Costa birth would. He coolly met the boy's gaze with a stare of his own, than breaking with tradition he slowly but surely crossed his green eyes. To that the boy responded with a giggle, snatching a hand up to hide the smile and muffle the sound.

"Good morning." the priest reiterated the greeting, and to that the giggle got a little louder. After a few snickers the child dropped smile, hand, and cheer, in one go and lifted a hand.

Than, with a surety of a Martel given law, he pointed at the sky, and there was something of a demand in the quiet gesture. To that, the priest complied, turning to consider the sun, it's angle, and the sky about them all. Hands on hip he turned back, admiring of the heavens done for a bit.

"It's pretty." He conceded, "thanks for pointing it out."

Deciding that holding the tail of this gathering was a bit boring Tylor passed the boy, bravely ruffling the child's hair and dodging the snap of those fangs to take point. There was a hill up ahead, and the promise of a new view past the rise put some speed to his step.

"Noon." The boy explained.

Looking back and behind, a smile on his face, Tylor stretched, yawned, than shrugged. "Feels like morning to me."

A quick dance step inspired the child to offer another half hidden giggle and a loud "snort" from the green and silver dog. The sound was downright disdainful, and instead of losing heart to the healthy dose of skepticism in the noise his smile widened. Green eyes glinting as he spotted -and mutely took up- the challenge of that skepticism. For a while the priest considered the dog from the corner of his eye even as he passed them by. For a few steps he held the lead, pacing no one but his shade, than he slowed, without word or explanation. Dirk took point then, never once looking up or commenting on the budding banter. For all the priest knew he never noticed, lost in the lull of putting one foot in front of the other.

How sad.

Sidling up to the dog he considered " _hey you_ " openly this time, no coy "from the corner of his eye" involved. Aware he was being stared at the canine picked up pace, intent on showing the nosy human the best view of all, a fast retreating tail. Still grinning, the priest kept pace, and when they were going at a good clip threw down the branch to be tripped on, as it were.

"So, Minty, was it?"

The dog stopped, managed to do so without a trip, but he did stop. It was as if someone had brought up a brick wall in front of the poor brute's snout. The stop was so sudden that the passenger squeaked, almost thrown, and to that the priest "tisk"ed, shaking his head, red locks swirling behind him. Whipping his furry face about, black eyes wide with shock, "Minty" looked up at the smiling priest, and scowled. It was an interesting expression given shape by a mute snarl, slicked ears, and an impressive array of teeth (" _All the better to eat you, my dear." snarled the Wolf, rabid eyes wildly wide.)._ To those teeth and indignant eyes he bravely smiled, his traitorous feet taking a subtly, sliding, back step just in case he needed to bolt.

Satisfied he had the uppity human in place the canine craned his head up, prodded it's rider with a black nose.

"Whine?"

"Minty?" The brown haired boy tried the nominative, legs idly drumming the beasts fuzzy sides while he thought it over with all due seriousness.

"WHINE!"

Another poke of that black nose, another pathetic "whiiine", all designed to get some expected response from his rider. Ignoring both pokes and whines the child mulled over the name, small face serious. Tilting his head while he thought it over -as if to inspire the thought to tumble about from one end of his skull to the other- the boy's continued contemplation caused the canine to dance about in panic.

Clearly a lifetime of being dubbed "Mint" did not sit well on those silver and green streaked shoulders.

"Flufffer!" The boy pronounced firmly. Than in a tone less resolute than the last, the boy confided to his dog. "Momma used to call you that _all_ the time."

"Whiiine..." With a dejected flick of his tail and a droop to his ears, the beast sighed.

"Fluffer fluff head!" The boy cheered, squealing with delight as if the name had been some precious find.

Looking up from looking nowhere, the dwarf started. Having been drawn into the hypnotic lull of walking the well-tended path, Dirk jolted awake at long last. And seeing the boy - _his_ boy- acting as any other would, the dwarf cracked a smile


	3. Best Foot

Tales of an Iselian Tiger.

Chapter 2

Best foot...

Rope lay in his lap, coiled like a tame snake. It was a goodly length, long enough to wind about his torso and dangle so it nearly touched the ground. Coated in bits of flaking stripes, he rolled it over in his hand, back was in the same pitiable state as the front. It was a shame all around. Smiling at his pun, fully intended and all the funnier for it, he ran the patchy orange and black hued rope in his hands. No point in putting it off, though hard on the nose it was all in all a worthwhile endeavor. He took to his task with a sigh, confirmed the sad truth with another turn and twist. Taking truth firmly in hand he went to fixing. Out came the bottles, one black, the other orange, both were half full with a sludgy gunk that barely stirred though he shook it vigorously.

From his barrowed blankets Dirk rose, half propped himself on one belt elbow, dark eyes curious. Over all it was an impressive sight, watching a dwarf squirm and fight only to half rise from human blankets when he was half a man's size or more. More to the incredulous sight, than to the curiosity, Tylor smiled.

"One must look their best and put their best foot forward, wouldn't you say?" the priest quipped.

"With a stripy rope?" The dwarf asked gruffly.

"With a _freshly painted_ stripy rope." The priest corrected.

With a snort that declared the human mad without the use of language, Dirk rolled over and was promptly half buried by the blankets Tylor had laid out for him on the forest floor. Falling asleep, heralding his state with the beginning of what promised to be a loud night of snores, the dwarf left the world of the waking in a roll of artificial thunder. Tylor smirked, despite knowing how rude it was he spared the sight a chuckle as all the dwarven stereotypes he'd heard all his life were confirmed in one pass. To that soft sound the dog considered him, its black eyes a mystery.

"A gald piece for your thoughts, Mr. Minty?"

The "dog" met the human's gaze squarely in an oddly human gesture. Black eyes peeping out from a mask of spring green fur, the beast cocked his head to the side in mute inquiry. Thick neck arched, the beast watched intently as the priest popped off one of the lids. Only when the odor escaped the once air tight confines did the beast wrinkled his long snout. To that Tylor grimaced, and tried not to breath too deep as the slick sweet smell of paint assaulted his nostrils too.

"It's not that bad and I promise I'll make it quick." The priest assured his watch mate a gesture that was more grimace than grin. "Don't worry, I've a lot of practice with this." He assured "Minty" with a wink.

To that the green and silver colored dog snorted, or would have, an errant gust of wind drew the reek close and snort became a "gak" of absolute disgust. Hacking and wheezing the canine staggered to his feet, snaking his neck down so he could grab Lloyd by the scruff of his shirt and carry the boy along. Clearly the smell was _that_ bad, and despite whatever assurances the priest had just given the beast was going to move downwind and take his charge with him.

"Hey now!" The priest snapped, half rising in protest at the... well doggish manner that "Minty" was using to move the boy along.

Utterly trusting, or perhaps merely a deep sleeper, the child didn't stir though he dangled a goodly few inches off the earth.

"He's not a puppy, you know." Tylor scolded, setting paints and rope aside to take the more important matter in hand. Pushing off the springy grass coated ground for leverage, he stood, staggered a half step, then strode up the dog. Eyes widening in surprise the dog's response was instantaneous. Furry lips lifted in something too savage to be a smile, and though a shirt full of mouth weighing him down, the canine dredged up a snarl.

The beast was more formidable than any wolf the priest had ever seen. Equal to a man's chest in height if he stood on the tips of his paws and craned his neck just so. Both, which the dog did, as Tylor approached. Fear lit in those black eyes, and to that he moved as any good person would, to reassure and dispel the out of place terror.

"Easy, I just want to give you a hand." The priest smiled wide, opening his hands to show them to be empty. "Come on now, be reasonable" Tylor pressed, seeing the beast shuffle one paw behind the other, as if the beast were preparing to bolt. With a sigh, setting his hands on his hips it was in that pose he looked down at the dog. "He's shivering you know." The priest pointed out quietly, his vestments rustling like uneasy ghosts as the earlier breeze picked up a mite.

Slowly, so not to wake the slumbering child, "Minty" lowered his massive head, set the boy on the ground and grudgingly loosed his nip.

To that the priest chuckled, then picked up the child where the dog had placed the boy.

"Your nose shall be my guild." The priest teased, making a joke of a small sacrilege, for the proper saying ran "Your light shall be my guild". It was an old Martelian verse, a sentiment overused to the point of it becoming passe.

Perhaps understanding the light jab at the priestly profession the canine wagged his tail in a doggish kind of mirth. Looking over one fury shoulder, as if to assure himself he hadn't lost anyone, the dog paced a few steps away and turned back again. Waiting.

Taking the not too subtle hint for it was the priest kept pace, the child cradled in his arms.

XXX

"My laundry was a bit behind. So I hide the stains, see?"

To that the boy snickered, face hidden by a barrier of raised hands, brown eyes sparkling as he took in the orange and black striped vest Tylor had slung over his stereo typical Martelian robes to "hide the stains" as it were. Turning to the dog, he sighed, a mite melodramatically, as if crushed by the child's laughter. His whole face a-twitch the priest braved on in the face of Lloyd's skepticism and turned to face the child's pet.

"Sincerely, the vest serves a purpose. I ah... also seem to have _outgrown_ my traditional leather made belt about the waist if you take my meaning. So, in proper Martelian fashion I improvised."

To that he lifted the glossy tail, it's attendant bells ring-a-linged at the provocation. To that the dog wagged his tail madly, black eyes squinted up, red tongue a loll.

"Sincerely..." the priest turned to the flabbergasted Dirk. "With utmost honesty, I do speak, when I say that..."

Hands on hips face reddening, Dirk let out a hard bark of a laugh that stopped Tylor's act in it's tracks. The sound wasn't mirthful, rather scornful, and a bit... vicious besides.

"Lad, don't play the fool with me." The dwarf snapped.

"I, good sir?" Tylor teased, forcing his smile wide.

Lifting one thick finger he waggled it at the priest, every solid inch scolding and stubborn.

"Yes, you. And I mean it lad, no lies of any stripe. Lying's the first step towards thievery, it's a dwarven vow and all."

"Dwarven vow?" Tylor queried, his green eyes wide in surprise as he took in a twofold shock. Few were those he couldn't charm out of a bad mood by being himself, and rare was it they'd go so far to scold him. Those who thought him a fool generally turned the other way, having nothing to do with him at all rather than to correct. Tucking his thumbs in his belt Dirk rocked back on his leather boots, confident he'd stopped the quick paced, pointless, banter in its tracks. Dwarven from head to toe, Dirk thought it his right to make those around him set aside their scattered efforts and strove to put down a solid base. In this case, what was needed was a solid slab of truth in place of the whimsical willies this priest was tossing all about.

"Now then." Dirk smiled to reassure the fully grown human, feeling a bit strange that he'd have to do so. It attested to the sad state of a people when a man went all sullen to have his game stopped. Games were for children after all, not adults. "What's the truth behind the glamour, lad?"

To that question the smile returned, the green eyes glinted with mischief, it was the smile Gnome gave when he played a prank on the worlds.

" _That_ , would be telling."

"Aye, telling the _truth_."

"Evading isn't lying, good dwarf."

"It's annoying." Dirk huffed.

To that Tylor tipped his head, the human's wild red hair trailing behind him, the man tapped on finger against his lips as if in deep thought. One tick of the head caused the thought to tumble one way, another tick and tile caused the thought to tumble another way. It was so quiet Dirk imagined he could hear the idea bumping about the priests skull with a loud click-a-clatter... but truthfully that might have been the bells striking the road. Finally, thought complete, the priest smiled, dropped his pose, and the hole of his face was lit with inspiration. With a snap of his fingers to proclaim he'd reached some solution, the human turned on his heel and began his trek down the road to Iselia.

"Hey now!" Dirk snapped, stomping after the priest. "What were you about to say?"

Hands clasped behind his hands the priest hummed an odd tune, not uttering one word in reply. Badgering and following, Dirk kept pace with the still humming priest. Confused, Lloyd merely settled himself on his doggie's back and scratched those broad silver and green shoulders. Ignoring the petting this time, the canine contemplated. Black eyes peeked out from a green mask, tail no longer a-wag, "Minty" paced after the dwarf, and priest, canine face curious. Thus the foursome took to the final winding stretch of road that would make them leave the edge of forest, and continue towards Iselia.

XXX

"There's a Saying I've heard human's use" _Saying_ was said with the same gravity the word _vow_ had been tabbed with a conversation agone. Lulled out of his humming by a brisk pace and changing scenery Dirk had taken advantage of the man's quiet to get a word of five in. "It's about putting the right foot forward."

"Humans are unduly concerned with their feet." Tylor explained sagely. The ribbon about his neck, he plucked at it in seeming distaste as he talked. Finally, a light a glee springing in his eyes, he raked a hand through his hair, first one, than the other, catching locks far and wide. When he had the bulk his hair contained in one hand he picked of the ribbon and would it about the raised lump atop. While he bound his hair he continued his explanation. "We have many feet sayings, us humans. Putting one's foot in it. One foot on front of the other. A foot in the mouth... and so on and so forth."

Winding down his explanation he finished winding up his hair. The green fabric made a pretty contrast to the fiery locks it bound. A tickling against the back of his ears told the priest that a few locks had gotten loose. Not wanting to look a rogue he tucked those few strands of red behind one ear and smiled.

"How do I look?"

Silence, incredulous quiet. That was normal, and so he waited it out with the patience years of experience had taught him to use. Quietly, sweeping dark eyes from the tangled top of the human's head to the tiger striped boots that covered one of the priest’s feet, Dirk coughed before uttering one word. And it was that word, scorn driven, with a look of deep concern twisting the short man's features that made the priest laugh.

"Girly."

"Nooo. You're exaggerating!" Whirling to the other end of the gathering, to green dog and little boy he posed, striving to look impressive. After all, first impressions were everything.

"Look Noshy, mop!"

The little boy was pointing with discerning accuracy at the top of Tylor's head. Reaching up, Tylor scratched at the top of his head, rather wounded by the child's assumption.

"Oh come now!" Tylor huffed, face starting to turn pink as he fought, and failed, against a blush. "I do not look like a... a..."

"Bark!" The green and silver "Noshy" affirmed, tail wagging so vigorously it seemed ready to fly off the behind it was attached too.

"A mop?" Tylor sighed, dejected to find out the hard way that Dirk was probably right.

"A mop." The dwarf grunted.

"Seriously?"

"Want another vow 'bout honesty?"

"One's enough, thank you."

Reaching up to tug the cassock off Tylor winced as he realized a horrible truth. The tassels at the end of the ribbon had tangled with his hair, again, which was why -he remembered belatedly- he never wore his hair up. "Ah Martel..." Another tug inspired a headache and drove the point of his folly to the fore. "Martel blast it..." He sighed, half grieving for his situation, half rueful that he couldn't use stronger words to describe it. Then, inspiration struck, he looked to the dwarf with a bit of hope to his eyes. "You're a craftsman, and I'd bet a belled boot that you'd have a pair of scissors or razor on you, am I right?"

To that quivery the Dirk jerked a thumb back to indicate the ax slung over his back, just in case Tylor had missed it.

"I've that." The dwarf offered.

"No thank you."

Then, with a smug smirk, the dwarf extended a hand. He saw another lesson on the horizon, and moved to tender it.

"Your boot than. You did promise and all."

Chuckling, Tylor bowed to the dwarf, he had promised, and a promise was a promise after all. "Right or left?" He asked politely.

"I was joking!"

"Well, I wasn't." The priest gave a little smirk of his own. "It'll be a fine toy for the boy on his road to your home, keep him from brooding, and annoy his dog as well."

To that "Noshy" the canine also known as "Minty" and "Fluffer" bared his impressive fangs in another mute growl.

"Just making sure you don't forget me, is all." The priest teased the dog. "...Minty."

"Snarl!"

Pulling off his left boot Tylor tossed it to the dwarf and turned on his heel he took the path towards Iselia. Left at the fork in the road Dirk was torn, between smile and frown. The scent curdling from the boot decided his gesture for him, but nothing else.

Unsure for one of the first times in his life, Dirk stroked his beard, thought the day and a half he'd spent with the man over a good long while and mulled on other things. Finally, decision met, he took the logical course.

"Let's get us home." The dwarf declared, turning himself towards the split on the path that would lead home.

To Dirk decision the dog growled.

"To my home than." Dirk amended. "We've a lot to talk about, the three of us."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Tales of an Iselian Tiger.

Wind the wandering..

He came among silence and stare, gasps and a few scattering of titters. Eyes adverted, not his, never that, but theirs. As a whole they turned aside, ill at ease with his outré spin on a fixture. To that he smiled, whistling a hymn he meandered to the town square.

_I've come from a road fantastic, paced by impossible, paved by improbable, I wind the wandering road... Redoubling upon steps once taken, I aspire the tip-top spire cast in snow's white, crafted of silver stone…_

She waited for him, savior, saved. Made patient by times passing. Her eyes were the color of sky, so true to that elusive hue that he glanced above for a quick compare. Satisfied, he noted her hair, streaked with steely locks and a few wisps of gold -not true metals of course, but there likeness was found in the colors upon the woman's head- to allude to the girlish growth decades gone. There was a bit of a stoop to her shoulders and plenty of wrinkles to her weather-beaten face. Still, the worst of times efforts were stemmed by the fact that half of those wrinkles were exaggerated smile lines, rather than time's ravages.

To her he bowed, smiling all the while.

"Tylor Aru-Valen Sancrest."

Statement, not question. He chuckled to that, flicked his gaze left than right. Two other priests, made anonymous by blank expressions and identical robes watched on. Almost guard like, incredulous that thought was, for all priests took a vow against violence, so went the writ, so followed the priests. They were all… ever faithful, to a fault.

"I am."

He met her gaze, and thought her beautiful despite the stiffness of her stature and the apparent concern on her face.

"Mrs. Phadria Brunel, Voice to the province of Iselia, I am indeed Tylor Aru-Valen Sancret, twice again acolyte of the Palma Costian branch of the faith."

Twice again, both priests flanking the old woman asked that question with an exchange of glances amongst themselves. They looked the wrong place for answers, only doubled their curiosity but not their daring. Neither spoke, to him or to her, only shared that look of mute inquiry then went still as custom dictated.

She raised an eyebrow in mute inquiry; playing the smiling fool he took the tail of his... well tail in hand letting the cheery notes of the bells serve as an answer all on their own. She was wise as she was beautiful, and didn't ask after what wouldn't be answered. So she took his answer and took him in, starting her inspection from the tangle of tassel and hair, weeping past green eyes, tracing her way down the and led of his face and letting her scrutiny slide down the length of stripe and symbol. She stopped at his feet, one booted, one bare, and he wiggled his toes self-consciously.

"Someone I met along the way needed the boot more than I." Tylor explained calmly, toes of his bare toes all a wiggle.

After all, tranquility was needed to ascend to the Goddess, fidgeting wasn't quite taboo yet, so he did a little of both, tapping into tranquility and fidgeting all at once.

To her skepticism, he ceased to smile his face now as sober as hers he loose the tiger tail and let it fall with a melodic clatter.

"Mercy is particular, isn't it Voice." He noted, more to the square than her. "Capricious in its form and frame, rarely given, never expected."

To that she smiled, the steel in her gaze softening a bit around the edges.

"Is that a request?"

"Hardly." He dared a grin. "Hypocrisy doesn't look good on anyone. Spots on stripes, stripy spots, and the like." He quipped. "However, if one is offering a sip of tea and a bite of lunch, that I'll happily accept."

Shaking her head, she sighed. The sky caught in her eyes was distant and framed all around by a troubled continence.

"You are a strange one, a strange and troubled one, my child."

To that he laughed, for the only other choice was to protest, and that would demean them both. He wouldn't do that, not to himself, nor to her, for she seemed a good natured dear. Then, since he couldn't' resist -and that was the crux of so many of his troubles- he quipped.

"Do you prefer Mommy, or Mother Superior?"

She hovered, between indignation at his sacrilegious and... well another kind of indignation. He winced, knowing he'd dared too far again, and waited the store. To his surprise it was a mild little squall that made his smile widen at its conclusion.

"Neither, it's Phadria, and if any title is needed at all it’s too formal a setting for my taste."

Now it was his turn to shake his head laughing all the while. Grinning wide, he dipped into a bow, both low and deep, and rose from is smiling wide.

"Tylor Aru Valen Sancrest, sometimes called Tiger Tylor, at your service ma'am."

To that the steel left the old woman's eyes and her continence once warped by concern smoothed into a tranquility he'd seen emulated but never achieved in all his tears in the clergy. Never, that was until, now.

"Not my service, sir. Sancrest. But most holy Martel's."

To her serenity he sobered, but didn't lose the smile, never that! He bowed once more, his bells all a jingle.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

XX

Bemused he sat, one leg bent and cocked so that it rested on his knee. It went without saying, that it was the bootless foot that was propped up and one hand was hard at work giving it a good rub. Still, mortal fallacies aside, he listened even as he tended to his aching toes.

As such, his pains of listening were somewhat wasted as his host had yet to find one thing to say.

"I swear by Martel's crown I found every rock between here and there." Had inspired a grunt, an unsympathetic one at that.

The man, his present host, hadn’t even introduced himself. Phadria had tended both men's introductions for them, then let to fetch the "Chosen One". Clearly the elder priest meant to awe him into complacency, perhaps even muinancity… or was it mundancy? Whatever the word, she seemed intent to awe the stripes off his vest, and while he wished her all the luck in the world he didn't hold much faith she'd succeed. They'd been dyed deep and long ago, and if one vest did go stripeless he'd just make another.

So he wiled at words and twiddled witticisms, even as he rubbed at the tender span about a budding blister.

All the while, the blond, sturdy man –Frank, Phadria had called him- stared. Blue eyes- so much like the old woman's, which left no questions about the man's linage- were opened so wide they seemed likely to roll out of his skull. Despite the hazards to his sight, the tall man seemed content to stare until the Last Day and beyond, all without blinking.

So Tylor left Frank to his staring, sipped at the tea so graciously provided by Phadria before she'd run off, and tried to find some comfort on the iron chair Phadria had pointed out for him to sit on. To boil down his superior’s orders for him –skipping introductions and the like- into two words was a mite demeaning as they consisted of "Sit" and "Stay". Considering that "Don't look" hadn't been part of the bundle, Tylor draped his tail over the back of his chair and twisted about to better look at the budding garden and its attendant house.

Over all the effect was very near, meticulously was the spacing between the plants, everything had a place and every place had a thing. While not all the flowers weren't bursting with blooms the orderly rows of well-tended green were pleasing in their greenie sort of way.

"Very pretty." The priest noted when he was weary of twisting about to bet the best view.

"Well..umm" Eyes still locked on the oddities and accessories of Tylor's person Frank seemed to be trying to make small talk at long last. Eagerly Tylor leaned forward, and the slightly older man leaned back in response. "My… my wife… she loved…"

Biting his tongue for he'd caught the past tense, Tylor waited, and to the oddly attired priest's patient scrutiny Frank fell silent. Forgetting witticism and word, Tylor dwelled on route and platitudes for a while. With a quiet sigh he let it all go.

"Very much," He agreed. "I can tell."

Seeing his cup was empty Tylor filled if from the kettle left between them on the cast iron table. While lukewarm, the liquid was still very good. He rolled the liquid on his tongue to catch it's subtle texture then swallowed. Setting the delicate flower engraved cup down on its attendant saucer he sighed, leaned back.

His tail, of course, jangled.

A small "tink" told Tylor his silent companion had set his cup aside too, not particularly caring the priest closed his eyes, tilting his head back as far as it would go. Hair still tangled by tassel and ribbon he gave a little headache inspiring tug.

"You wouldn't happen to have any scissors, would you?" Tylor asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

Taking Frank's continued quiet as a negative the priest chuckled. Ah well, you couldn't have everything. Content for a time he reclined letting the golden light of the distant sun cradle his head and caress his face. Filling his ears with the unquiet silence fill his ears. The warble of birds the sigh of a lackluster breeze, he smiled and was content to linger for a while.

The jingle of bells right next to his ear made him crack open one eye. He'd hung between the liquid boundary of sleep and of thinking about nothing at all. Jarred from tat twilight span where sleep lurked and snatched wandering souls he yawned, and stretched nearly melting out of the chair all the while.

"Evening" he grunted, opening the other eye so he could best contemplate the giggling imp before him.

Blonde variety, he noted with clinical detachment gained from spending a sizable chunk of his lifetime dealing with such "imps", and with a pair of stunning –and oh-so familiar- blue eyes. She had long hair, the while was a smoothed back mass with a out a touch of bangs to obscure her forehead or take away from those striking, familiar, eyes. She was a pretty little thing, with a round face, an delicate little nose his hands itched to pinch. Eyes sparkling, she jangled the tail again, and he rolled his eyes in response. That was quite a feat, considering the angle of his head at the moment.

"Yeees." He drawled.

To that she giggled louder, gave the tail another ring.

With a grunt Tylor sat up, un-sprawled as much as his sore neck would allow, and twisted about.

"Was there something in particular you wanted?" He teased. "Or did you just want to give me a ring?"

A sharp cough caught his attention; so prompted he looked past the child and to a scowling Phadria as the old woman struggled up the path to them. At that sound the girl loosed the tail, tried to look somber, a quick wink on his part made the girl's efforts a failure.

"I note some resemblance." Tylor yawned, even as he stood and turned the chair about, a mute offering for the approaching priestess. "Some niece of yours perhaps?"

"My Granddaughter." Upon seeing the offer she softened a bit, thought she didn't smile, a shame that, or so Tylor thought. But perhaps it was the weight of the next proclamation that weighed down the corner of her lips and stole the smile. It was a simple constrict, a few syllables, as most statements were. Curt and to the point, and potentially earth shattering, all in one, over all it was rather well balanced considering it alluded to the fate of the world.

"The Chosen One, my Granddaughter."

Insanely, inanely, the old song came back to him. A verse he was fond of though he remained unsure of its founding… and its religious inclination as it were.

_I've come from a road fantastic, paced by impossible, paved by improbable, I wind the wandering road... Redoubling upon steps once taken, I aspire the tip-top spire cast in snow's white, crafted of silver stone…_

With a smile he knelt then, bent frog-like his rear almost –but not quite- touching the ground. One arm set over both bent knees he considered the girl, a small slip of a child with hair so pure it looked spun of gold.

"And what's your name, Little Miss?"

Phadria almost fell over in shock at that. Oblivious to the method and madness of the adults about her the girl smiled and bowed as she'd been taught to do with every introduction.

"Colette Brunel."

"Tylor Aru-Valen Sancrest. Tylor for short." He ruffled her hair, then stood, hands on hips he looked to Phadria, one eyebrow raised in mute challenge that became rather vocal after a few seconds.

"Problem?" He queried.

To that Phadria shook her head, the gray locks swirled about her neck making a soft sigh all its own.

"Several."

 


	5. Ready...

Tales of an Iselian Tiger

Ready…

His attire was the first spat of many, she stared at him wide eyed, than ordered him to change, grimly marching him to his chambers in the chapel. He toed the line, that far at least, thought it was sullen, and each heavy foot fall jangled up a storm, the rope tail hissed across the stones with every shuffled step.

And as she walked, she dragged his worn ears through a speech about sin.

"Reverence is part of piety."

"I'm respectful." He protested through the closed door. "Have I sworn, Mrs. Phadria, or challenged anyone's judgment?"

"Humility is part of the faith."

"I've yet to boast." Then, because he was honest, he had to add. "In your hearing, at least today…." Tapping one finger against his lips, he thought if over carefully, enunciating past the tapping was quite the trick, but he managed with the barest lisp. "Well, unless the last was a boast, not too sure there…"

"Tradition.-" Phadria began firmly.

"Can stuff itself!" Came the heated reply. She could imagine the unholy show of passion the man made a show of flaunting at every turn, could easily see the reddening face and stubborn hands on the hips pose he was prone to flaunting when he got really peeved. "It's boring, plodding, and overdone to the point of it becoming trite."

To that, she could only sigh, whether in agreement or exasperation he could never tell.

Nor would she ever tell. Mutely she thanked the Goddess, gave thanks for the grace of Martel that no one else was here to hear this. All the other priests were at service; only he and she remained behind, him for his attire, her for escorting him back to make him change attire and do it right.

"You are a handful, Mr. Sancrest." She sighed, shaking her head thought he couldn't see it.

But perhaps, some way, he could see. For his chuckle ghosted past the door, a throaty, mischievous, laden sound that did nothing to offer sooth her fears.

XXX

(The previous day to present)

It was always awkward, starts, but there they waited, a bit before dawn, bright and early. It was a day of starts that had, to bludgeon the word to death, started a noon agone. He hadn't been too thrilled to find himself barracked in the communal hall that the "lesser priests", the acolytes, had dubbed home. The lack of privacy would serve a problem in the long run, still he endured his first day, he wasn't one to want to start with a bad impression after all. After those about him had gotten over the oddities of his attire it had been quite the huddle, the trading of tales of his pilgrimages and theirs. Much like traders meeting at a favored tavern to swap stories on routes and the like they bandied about worshipers, chapels, and roads. Well, on hindsight, with the taste of old tea lingering in his mouth and old conversations rattling about his memory as echoes without sound, it wasn't akin to merchants and their "shop" talks at all. Firstly, no booze, secondly, out of all the topics that served as small talk amongst the wanderlust struck clergy; only the last topic was shared between the two groups.

Still, it was a pleasure to talk amongst those that understood, who felt the sharp bite of curiosity and the pull of taking to the track –and a bit beyond the track- to see what lay beyond their present horizon.

So he savored what he enjoyed, tried to ignore the suffocating closeness of the Spartan chamber (Pallets, pallets, everywhere, but not a bed to sit) and thought accustomed to the ground as a place to sleep he was _not_ accustomed to the storm of snoring that his peers threw up after sleep took them off.

His pillow, his packs actually, were pulled over his head at first. After that failed to muffle the noise he temporized, and the wee hours before dawn found him with his head _in_ his packs, hands clapped over his ears, trying desperately to get some sleep.

The dwarf hadn't even snored this bad, but then there was only one of him and there were five priests in all in the chapel’s cramped communal room.

It was only when the sky shed gray light in the slit windows that he gave up with a little growl. So black rings about the eyes and bleary he staggered to his feet, wove about the comatose forms of his companion priests, and found the hall. To his credit, he tipped no more than twice, and the second fall helped him find the door. Grumbling about abused toes he took himself out without waking a soul.

Or rather the few souls he woke swiftly went back to sleep.

The silence of the stone hall was gratifying, beyond gratifying. He was grateful, and so he thanked Martel for that sliver of peace. Than, because he could be lazy with the best of them, he basked in the quiet for a little. Lazy span done, duty realized, he squared his shoulders and went to find the chapel's kitchen. It wasn't unoccupied, much to his surprise. Phadria already bustled about the pots and pans, the small stove was already stoked and a pot above it boiled.

"Most Holy Voice, Phadria, how does the dawn greet you?" He bowed respectfully, gracefully, and a bit too low. His head swept the floor, fell loose and free for the cassock had been cut by the Chosens' own hand. The replacement was probably pending, not that he'd cared to ask just yet.

"Well enough. And it's a bit too early for foolery, young man."

He had to laugh to that, at her words not the woman, and shrugged at his laugh's conclusion.

"It's not Palma Costa." He agreed. "For that I'm grateful."

"Have you praised Martel for her mercy, for that just yet?" She asked, her tone a bit challenging.

What she challenged, either them or him, remained an unknown. Not bothering to delve the depths of cause, effect, or motive, he yawned instead.

"Every morning of every day." He affirmed, never minding the consequences. "Well a day," a stretch followed the yawn. "What have we for breakfast, dear lady?"

"Porridge, sliced fruit, and toasted bread."

"Smells and sounds wonderful, I'll tell you how it tasted after I eat it though."

To that she laughed, despite herself, shaking her head all the while.

"You are a candid one, aren't you?"

"It's a flaw." He shrugged. "Want a hand?"

"Two if you've them to spare." She bantered back dryly.

"Only if they get to stay attached…" Thoughtfully he considered his request, than decided on "candor" as always. "Mrs. Phadria, would you be horribly upset if I were to… make an addition to your efforts?"

"Go right ahead, you're helping after all."

She'd never say that, ever again, if he was any judge, not when he was done.

"Where do you keep the chocolate?" He asked innocently.

"Top shelf, left most pantry." Then, because she was innocent and never knew to ask the proper question she asked the improper one instead. "Could you take over so I can rest my feet, young man."

To that he smiled, gratified with every small assurance Martel was throwing his way this morning that she did approve of his plans. Such reminders were gratifying, to say the least.

"Of course. Rest your feet a ways away, I'll take over here." He assured smiling wide, his green eyes dancing. "Trust me."

Even with that warning Phadria shuffled off, taking smile for morning cheer, and the dancing of those eyes was some emerald cast reflection of the cooking fire on those eyes. Innocent mistakes, only once made, never repeated, such were the cycles of every "redemption" attempted by the clergy for their most unpriestly of priests.

"Martel's blessing to brighten the dawn. Tylor said to his superior's retreating back.

"And to you as well." Phadria gave the benediction over her shoulder, than she slipped beyond his sight, and to that he chuckled.

Innocent mistakes were never repeated, a shame that, it'd be useful otherwise. Scrambling for the leftern most shelf he fetched his first ingredient for cookies, the most important, the chocolate, and was well on his way to shaking Iselia's innocence to it's silly core.

 


	6. Steady...

Tales of an Iselain Tiger

 

Steady…  


 

We give thanks, thanks for this morning blessings. We give thanks, to the Goddess who shields us from the dark, and prevents us from falling prey to the dark of night and all its fell creatures."

Before her, clad in humble whites lightly accented with touches of green, the congregation of clergymen murmured the expected.

"For this, we give thanks."

Starting the next line of prayer, so familiar it was almost formula, Phadria led her priests in prayer. Seated in the chapel's mess hall, all the chairs save one were filled. A glaring absence that while not sinister, was unsettling. As unsettling and worrisome as the surprise she'd discovered before morning bell had rung. An empty kitchen, with breakfast made and set before the table. In truth, alone, it would have been a perfectly ordinary scene, and something of a boon. It would have been a meal that she hadn't had to cook (a small reprieve in her day, though goddess knew she'd never have told that, even if pressed), a well cooked meal at that. But there had been an odd little undercurrent. The faintest aroma of charred chocolate that had hung about the kitchen and bothered her. Like a specter it lingered, inspiring inquisitive looks her way, just as the empty chair did even now…

Ignoring the empty seat, and the scent, an all it's alluded to implications, Phadria did as she must.

She lead the prayer on.

XXX

It was always hard, starting a fresh. Learning new places, memorizing faces, while that was part of the experience of moving on (or rather, being moved) it was tiring. Tiring and trying, for wherever he went he was met with sniggers and snickers, adverted eyes and judging silence.

Luckily for his sanity he had bells. Cheerful, jing-a-lining bells that filled those strained silences that he could scarcely bear. During the most trying turns of "getting acquainted" -that first span of hostile incredulous incivility) he could tap his heels like the Chosen in the tales. Unlike said Chosen he wasn't spirited home, rather he was given a moment's prompts time where that horrid pressure abated and he could recall... Frowns could fade (would fade), suspicious could (would) waver, and like so many mirages, be proven one at a time to be utter illusion. Until them, he'd wait, patience was all he'd need to weather the storm.

So he'd wait, and smile to while that awful time down.

Well, smile and amuse himself in other ways.

From the edge of sight he spied a familiar conflict; that of curiosity waging war with what was "right" and "proper". The battle was pitched upon a young child's face, brunette, blue eyed, girl, he noted those details from the corner of his eye even as his mind inanely noted that she was dressed in a brown so dull she could have matched the dust of the road. Catching his glossy tail rope in hand he twirled it about, filling his ears with a riotous clink a link of bells.

Accidentally a pouch tied to the tail fell loose at his playing. Oblivious to the patter of feet behind him, the girls query of "Mr. Priest, sir..." he whistled tunelessly along with the racket of his bells.

Utterly engrossed in his own noise, the priest baring his makeshift tail and a tiger striped vest, padded down the street, kicking up dust as he went. Counting seconds (and questions, ears pitched to pick up the slightest variant in tone) in his head, he dimmed his shrill whistles to a hum after seventeen second had passed. No reason, to the number, cal it instinct, impulse, was probably the better word.

"Mr. Priest, sir, you dropped a cookie."

To that -the friendliest salutation he'd gotten all morning- he smiled. Smiled and turned all at once. Still holding his tail, that flopped and shuddered as he twirled, he looked down at the girl-child before him. A sparrow's hues, he noted wryly, as somber as sparrow was her clothing but that hesitant smile on her face offset the drab slant to her garb.

"A cookie, you say?" Tylor teased. "And how little one, did you know the pouch I carried contained a cookie?"

A silly question that, considering the content of his pouch lay in her hands. There, half consumed, was a familiar (if diminished) brown and black speckled treat. To his silliness she giggled and blushed all at once. He tipped his head, a few red locks slipping free to follow the slant, his green eyes thinned and his face scrunched up as if he was lost in profoundest thought.

"You wouldn't happen have the pouch that came with the cookie, would you?"

Still giggling she nodded, offering him the black and orange painted canvas bag around her sniggers.

"Well a day!" With a chuckle of his own he took the pouch in his free hand and moved to tie it to the rope. After a moment's thought he changed his mind and plucked a fresh pouch from the tail. "We might be in some luck. If you aren't too busy for a quick game."

Though he appeared totally engrossed in his antics with the child a bit of motion from the edge of sight caused him to turn just a bit. An adult, as solemnly dressed as the child before him, was haring his was off to _someone_ of authority. Perhaps the Mayor, perhaps the other priests, perhaps even the girls' father.

"The name." Tylor held a pouch per hand, letting his tail fall to the ground with a clatter. "Is I spy eye. Save you have to spy, with your little eye, which pouch has the cookie."

Before she could point to the right hand he thrust both behind his back and swapped pouches a few times. When she huffed and stated that it wasn't _fair_ he shrugged, still smiling.

"If you know what pouch is what it's not much of a game, is it?"

"Is it a chocolate chip cookie." the girl demanded.

"Of course"

"Not a _raisin_ cookie."

To that his grimace was unfeigned.

"My dear, rains and cookie are mutually exclusive. A raisin and a cookie should not talk to each other, much less know that the both exist and putting them together is a sin to all cookie-dom. As a priest, I know-"

One small hand pointed to Tylor's left, indicating the hand behind the back. And to that determined little point Tylor fell silent.

"That one."

To the child's imperial tone and pointed finger he had to laugh. So he did, and it felt good.

XXX

If you give one girl a cookie she tells her friends. In turn, each friend tells their friends, and thus all are told within the course of ten minutes. At least, that's how he felt. Within a remarkably short period of time he was immersed in younglings and question with only occasional interludes of cookie munching to offer him a reprieve. Soon sugar rush hit, and those nonsense games without rules broke out about him. It had something of chase something of tag, and a little of hide and go seek about the edges to round it all out. During the course of the game a secret came out. A big one. One that _all_ adults strived to keep from children.

Discovered by accident, one realized it, than another, than the whole mob. Squeaking and squawking, Tylor tried to get away. His secret was out after all, and one did not linger when secrets came out. Alas his tail tripped him up, and the lot of them descended, fingers all a wiggle.

"No, please... Merciful Goddess.. not...not... there!"

Tossing and turning the dust of Iselia's square stole the pristine edge off of his white robes nd dulled the vibrant stripes of orange and black from his tail and vest. Despite his squirms he was surrounded, and his pleas went unheeded. Laughing so hard he cried and wheezed in turns the red head flopped a bit after his assailants let up, torn between gasping and laughing, he settled for trying both at once and nearly choked as a result. Gingerly he sat up, made aware in bits and pieces that the game was up. His insides hurt, almost burned, form it all.

Wiping dust form his eyes, tail bells ringing in the sudden, heavy, quiet, Tylor looked up still chuckling. Shaking his head to chase out a budding ache, Tylor Aruu-Vallen Sancrest looked up with some surprise at the horrified expression of his Mother superior. Silence, that had fallen thick and sure became ominous as priestess looked down at priest. Despite it all Tylor smiled, offered a twinkling little waive.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Phadria."

The steel in those sky blue eyes made him wince, just a little. His bells rang at the move, but still he grinned.

"I take it I'm in some trouble." Tylor suggested tentatively.

Her eyes narrowed just that. And to that his wince became a cringe that set all his bells to singing.

"Could you at least scold me in private?" He asked meekly.

Alas, wanting was not quite the same as getting, and thus he was scolded in public while sitting in the dust of Iselia's square.

X

Ignoring the curious looks from his brother priests, Tylor went on his way, bells all a ring. The lot of them were trooping to noon service, dressed in their priestly finest. He was not. Also, compile that sine with his tattered appearance, add to that the the company that he was keeping, and the direction he was headed… Well that would explain many of the turned heads. As of the moment Tylor was being escorted to his communal quarters by Iselia's Mother Superior, her staff thumping an exasperated tune on the worn stone floors. As luck would have it the other priests who had shared it with him last night were headed to the main chapel to go to prayers, so no explanations were needed once he passed the door way. As for what excuses he might have offered to those he met on the route here…. He was allowed none. Phadria offered sickly explanations with a sick sweet smile that discouraged questions and gave no real answers. All in all, Tylor was rather disappointed with her. Shame, she'd seemed so... lively a day ago. Ah well. Formality and that "superior" stuff he supposed could wear the fun out of the most carefree.

Left alone, with orders to "dress appropriately for the noon service" Tylor sighed and considered his packs. He hadn't bothered to pull out his other vestments, had put his best on top and was wearing those now. Though dust caked and sweat darkened the fabrics he'd tussled in were of the highest quality and considering his taste, appropriately sober. Cast in the white and spring green that the goddess so loved, but in subdued quantities so not to clash. The other alternatives deeper in the depths of the packs were... more festive. Lime green in fact, lime green britches and glossy white tunics, a favorite emerald green cape, and of course, his most formal high hat, that outstanding behemoth of holy head gear that those in Palma Costa stated his must wear every holy day decked out in shades of varying green and white holy symbols galore.

And of course, spare vests and coats baring his trade mark orange and black stripes, some stitched on, most painted.

Considering those alternatives he'd thought that Phadria would be content with his present attire.

Ah well. Reaching for the brightest of his garb, Tylor smiled.

Dress appropriately, he most certainly would. It would be a shame to disappoint her so early on in the game.

 


End file.
